


The Two Hand Reel Times

by caitthecursed



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Folk Music, Irish Festival AU, Irish dancing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitthecursed/pseuds/caitthecursed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard Moon thinks playing the accordion is a good way to impress women. Vince Noir will use any excuse to wear a skirt. Naboo just wants to smoke his weed and play his didgeridoo in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Hand Reel Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anroisin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anroisin/gifts).



> Merry Christmas Roisin! I'm grateful to have an excuse to write something filled with obscure Celtic music jokes. I know England probably doesn't have Irish cultural festivals like we do in America, but artistic license.

“Oi, Howard! I’ve been looking all over for you. Something awful’s happened and I need your help.”

Howard stopped mid-tune with a horrible accordion screech. “You know I’ve been sitting right here since this morning, Vince. You helped me set up.”

In Vince’s case, “help set up” had meant standing around in white cowboy boots and a Thin Lizzy shirt, complaining about the cold and the mud and how he really wanted a turkey leg and why did they have to be there right when the gates opened instead of rolling in at noon like civilized people (the answer was that the prime busking real estate went fast, and Jack bloody Cooper and his bloody bagpipes had snagged the best spot on the main footpath three years in a row. Not this year, sir, even if it meant setting up camp at half past six).

“I’m serious, Howard, it’s an emergency. Me and Leroy were supposed to dance at Naboo’s gig, but Leroy’s been puking in a Portaloo for the past hour.”

“Well, maybe you should’ve thought of that before you decided to drink your own weight in Guinness at the Banshee Death Wail show last night.”

A group of step dancers walked by, clad in matching purple velvet and black stockings. Howard smiled and waved, which made the girls huddle together and practically break into a run.

Vince pouted. “There’s only three pounds in your case, and you’ve been here all morning. Please come and dance the two hand reel with me. I know you know it.”

“I don’t know, Vince. Aren’t you doing some sparkly electro-pop nonsense?”

Vince rolled his eyes. “New age-Celtic-techno-fusion isn’t electro-pop, you idiot. Besides, it’s the twenty-first century. You’ve got to mix it up a bit, make it cool, make it relevant. Nobody wants stupid accordion music anymore.”

Howard gasped. “The accordion is a dignified instrument with a long, proud history. None of these sequins and drum machines and modern nonsense. Just a man and a tune, like it was in my grandfather’s day.”

“Your grandfather’s Welsh, you berk.” 

Vince spotted a couple of dancers coming down the footpath, and he smiled at them, running a hand through his hair. The girls smiled back, and why wouldn’t they, when Vince’s smile lit up his whole face like a small sun? When he ruffled his hair with cool nonchalance that nevertheless displayed an undercurrent of enticing vulnerability?

Howard shook himself out of his strange, unprompted reverie. “A beautiful tune for some beautiful ladies?” He tried to lift his accordion, but the end fell off his lap and made another horrible sound. Both girls winced, but didn’t walk away.

“I’m Claddagh,” said the girl with the blond curly wig. “And this is Shamrock.”

“We’re dancers,” said the dark-haired girl, giving Vince a shy smile. “Are you a musician too?”

Vince scoffed. “Musician, singer, DJ, shape thrower. I don’t like to limit myself. I’m actually dancing with The Shaman Board at 2:30, if you’d like to come.”

“That sounds brilliant,” Claddagh said, looking Vince up and down. Howard looked at the three grease-stained pounds in his accordion case and felt jealousy burn in his gut.

“We’ll both be there actually,” he said, standing up and noisily maneuvering his accordion onto the folding chair. “I’m quite the dancer as well as being a musician. Really allows you to feel the music from both sides. You understand that, of course, being dancers yourselves.”

Shamrock rolled her eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” She smiled at Vince. “See you at 2:30.” They continued walking down the footpath, and Vince waited until they were out of sight before grinning like a maniac and whacking Howard on the arm.

“Cheers, mate, I knew you’d come round. This’ll be brilliant. Come by the tent first for your kilt, yeah?”

Howard was surprised by Vince’s sudden traditionalism, but Vince had never missed an opportunity to wear a skirt. And Howard would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy feeling the wind on his bare legs. Let’s see the ladies ignore the svelte northern pins of Howard Moon, Lord of the Dance.

*

He really should have known better.

“You’re taller than Leroy, that’s why it don’t fit. It’d look proper if you weren’t such a moose.”

Howard tugged on the gold lamé. “This isn’t a kilt, Vince, it’s a belt. Are you going to make me dance in platform boots?” He wasn’t opposed to showing some leg, but the reel was a swift, agile dance that required a lot of leaping and kicking. Howard felt like he couldn’t bend a knee without exposing himself.

“You think Bowie would get all fussed about flashing a bit of thigh?” Vince looked like a rock star, of course, all that gold lamé and body glitter and pale skin. He could probably go on stage in a burlap sack and still look stunning.

The tent flap opened, and Saboo poked his head in. “Listen up, people. The dance drama finishes at quarter past two, and I want everyone lined up and ready to go at five past. Stage D is on the other side of the rugby fields, so you’d better book it.”

A groan penetrated the haze of smoke in the corner. “All right, all right. Keep your knickers on.” Naboo took a long, lazy hit before grinding the joint out. “Kirk, can you bring the didgeridoo? I’ve got my hands full.”

Saboo looked irate. “Kirk is far too young to be in this drug-infested den of wickedness.”

“He’s thirty-three, I think he can handle it.” 

Naboo handed the didgeridoo to Kirk, who propped it on his shoulder and picked up his bass. Naboo and Bollo gathered up their instruments and made their way out. Bollo looked Howard up and down, his expression impossible to read behind all the hair. “Nice legs, Moon.”

The tent flap fell shut, and Howard was left to think about how many long years it had been since he’d danced, whether he still remembered his reel steps, whether he would fall on his arse and all the pretty girls would laugh at him.

“Oh, fuck me. Howard, your pants.”

 _Fuck me,_ Vince had said, out loud, to Howard. “Sorry?” Howard turned to face Vince, who had eyes as wide as dinner plates and the start of an angry flush.

“Your bloody boxer briefs are visible in the back! Don’t you have another pair?”

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to bring spare pants to an Irish festival? It’s not my fault the kilts are so bloody short.” He reached for his trousers, trying to hide his red face from Vince. Being berated for his underwear choices was a new level of shame even for Howard.

“Oh, no. You are not wearing _corduroy trousers_ in my dance show. Just take your pants off, it’ll be fine.”

“Take my pants off?” Howard squawked. “You realize we’re going to be in front of people, yeah? Jumping and kicking and flinging our legs about?”

“Just keep your feet low to the ground, it’ll be fine. You’re a great dancer.” Vince stood on tiptoe and kissed Howard’s cheek, then ducked out of the tent. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Howard pulled down his briefs and kicked them towards his pile of clothes. 

*

The Shaman Board was already setting up when Howard and Vince arrived (Howard asked Bollo about the dance drama, which was listed in the program as _The Kelpie_. “Was shit,” Bollo said, wiping down his turntables. “Just one creepy bloke in a tutu.”). Saboo and Dennis were arguing over whether fiddle should have positional preference over uillean pipes, and Tony Harrison was setting up a veritable fortress of drums from all corners of the globe.

“Remember, Howard, we come in after the bongo breakdown but before the bouzouki solo. Do you need to go over the dance again?”

Howard shook his head, scanning the crowd for the girls from earlier. He spotted a few dancers under ten, a bunch of attractive young people in caftans, and a very sunburnt Bob Fossil with an Irish flag painted on his stomach, but no sign of the girls. “After the bouzouki breakdown, before the bongo solo. Got it.”

Vince sighed and shook his head. “Don’t make me regret this, Howard.”

The music started, and the crowd quieted down. At the halfway point of the song, Vince elbowed Howard in the ribs.

“Ready?” He took Howard’s hand and pulled himself tall and straight. In all the annoyance of the afternoon, Howard had forgotten that Vince was an experienced dancer who was indeed capable of not slouching.

“Ready, little man.” Tony reached the end of his frenzied bongo flourishes, and the rest of the band swooped in with a spirited reel tune. Vince squeezed Howard’s hand, and they were off.

It all came back in an instant. The music woke something that had been sleeping in Howard’s feet for too long, and he found himself leaping through the air like a nubile gazelle. He was weightless, a flying, whirling dervish anchored only by Vince’s counterweight.

Vince danced with the lithe, limber elegance of an elven prince. He looked a bit like one of the fae, with his sharp bony features and jet black hair. Howard always thought the black suited him, made him look like a delicate maiden in a fairy tale. Or, to be more faithful to the original stories, a hideous sea monster disguised as a delicate maiden.

Howard was so absorbed in watching Vince that he missed the cue for his own solo, and Naboo had to kick him in the ankle to get him going. Howard found that the muscle memory was still there, but his legs weren’t as nimble as they had been, and he felt his muscles straining with every jump. After Vince’s beauty and grace, Howard surely looked like a lumbering old buffoon.

There was a shrill whistle behind him, and when Howard glanced towards the back of the stage, Vince was clapping and grinning up a storm. “Alright, Howard! You’re killing it, you great corduroy prat!”

Vince had an uncanny knack for making insults feel like compliments, and Howard found himself blushing. Soon he was killing it, every jump higher and more powerful than the last. His legs felt like coiled springs, filled with the ancient power of the dance, and he could no sooner keep his feet from flying than an eagle could keep its wings from flapping. He launched into the final kick, and he watched as his foot swung all the way up to his chin, the muscles in his thigh burning like battery acid. He was a proud, majestic stag leaping across the moors. He was invincible.

It was then that Howard remembered he wasn’t wearing any pants.

When the screams finally died down and security came to escort him off the premises, Howard reminded himself that at least he didn’t spend the day with his head down a Portaloo.

*

It was nice to be in a cool, dark pub, back in the secure embrace of his corduroys. The Moon family jewels had gotten enough fresh air to last a decade.

Vince wouldn’t stop glancing over at Howard and giggling, which was doing no favors to Howard’s nerves. When he ran out of napkins to shred, he finally snapped at Vince. “What’s so bloody funny?”

This made Vince cackle so hard he almost fell off the barstool. “You bloody well know what’s funny. You showed your business to a whole crowd of nans and schoolgirls!”

Several angry faces turned towards them. “It was mostly college students, actually,” he said, a bit louder than necessary. 

Vince flagged down the barman. “Whiskey for my mate, yeah? The good stuff. He’s the Jim Morrison of the folk music circuit. He’s so sexually potent the festival couldn’t handle him.”

Howard wondered if his face would ever stop burning. “Yeah, watch out for Howard Moon, the sexual dinosaur. The mere sight of his undercarriage blinded a whole field full of dreadlocked vegans.”

Vince shook his head, still grinning. “Morrison’s the lizard king, not the dinosaur king. Besides, those hippies just couldn’t handle your raw animal machismo.”

Howard buried his head in his arms. “Feel free to stop any time, Vince. I get it. My naked body is the funniest thing that has ever existed. If the thought of my sexual prowess leaves you in hysterics, at least save it until I’m out of earshot.”

Vince let out another hoot, and Howard was utterly doomed, because seeing Vince so happy still made his stomach tie up in knots. The barman dropped a glass of whiskey in front of him, and he took a huge gulp to distract himself.

“Howard, you tit. Doing a high kick in your altogether is the single coolest thing you’ve ever done. How big do your balls have to be to go commando under a miniskirt?”

Vince was still grinning, but there was an odd look in his eye, punctuated by the way his teeth dug into his lower lip. Maybe his blood sugar was low.

“Normal sized, I’d imagine. Otherwise they wouldn’t fit.” Howard took another sip of whiskey—it really was good, he’d have to bake something for Vince to thank him. Hopefully Naboo and Bollo wouldn’t get the munchies and eat it all. He could get some kind of padlocked food-storage container, or maybe a strongly worded post-it note would suffice.

“I wasn’t being literal, you freak. Anyway, I thought it was well sexy. Wanted to rough you up right in the tent, but I’m pretty sure Saboo would kill me.”

Howard spit expensive whiskey all over the bar. “That’s…kind.” Surely Vince was joking, like he’d been joking about Jim Morrison. Did Vince joke about Jim Morrison, or was he sacrosanct? 

Either way, it was definitely a joke. Just like the hand Vince was steadily sneaking up Howard’s thigh.

“I feel bad, though. You got up at arse o’clock to get a busking spot, and then you did a favor for me, and then I got you kicked out of the festival.” Vince looked as remorseful as anyone could when finger dancing against someone’s inner thigh. Howard thought he was tapping out the steps to King of the Fairies.

“There’s, uh. There’s a nice spot right outside the pub, actually. And I bet I’d earn loads more money if I had somebody there to do some fancy footwork, make some shapes, knock out a couple tight treble reels. That is, if you aren’t opposed to boring old traditional music.”

Vince grinned. “What are you talking about, that sounds brilliant. Let me get my kilt back on.” He leaned over and kissed Howard on the cheek, then scampered off to the loo with his dance bag.

All in all, a resounding victory for the mighty accordion.

**Author's Note:**

> I made Howard and Vince do a reel dressed like Sunflash for comedy purposes, but Michael Flatley has done it in [real life](http://cdn.abclocal.go.com/content/wls/images/cms/558707_1280x720.jpg).


End file.
